


You're Mine and the World is Ours

by littlemel



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Domestic Bliss, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 07:58:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3242153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemel/pseuds/littlemel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Fuck, it's good to be home.</i>  Set immediately after the May 2008 MSG show.  Originally posted June 2, 2008.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Mine and the World is Ours

Frank does three things when he finally gets back to Jersey: kicks off his sneakers, kisses his wife, and then stumbles upstairs to fall face-first into bed. He barely has time to register that the sheets smell different--Jamia must've switched detergents--before he's asleep.

He wakes up once, disoriented until he hears Jamia breathing beside him, the dogs snoring from the floor. He throws his arm over Jamia's middle, tucks his knees behind hers and his face into the crook of her neck.

This time, he doesn't just sleep, he dreams. Big and bright and vivid, the way he only ever does in his own bed.

*

The clock on the nightstand reads 6:57 when he opens his eyes, but he can't tell if it's morning or night; this time of year, and with the rain, the light looks the same. He flips onto his back and knuckles his eyes. He's achey in weird places, and hungry, and he wants to take the longest, hottest shower in the history of showers. In his own bathroom.

He sits up, blinking at the still somewhat unfamiliar landscape of his own backyard. Big enough for a pool, if they decide they want one, and a swing set, someday. But right now it's just a stretch of lawn, dotted with the odd bunch of dandelions and a bare patch of dirt near the fence, where Sinatra likes to dig. There's a mower in the garage that he's never even used. He'll probably be sick of it by the end of the summer. He can't wait.

Jamia's voice drifts up from downstairs, sharp and quick, muffled through the closed bedroom door. One of the dogs was probably in the trash, or begging for scraps. He smells pizza, and his stomach grumbles as he swings his feet to the floor. He's still wearing last night's shirt, a little stiff with dried sweat. He yanks it over his head and reaches for the suitcase on the floor before he realizes he's got a whole dresser full of clean clothes.

He grabs one from the floor instead, his King Kong shirt with the mystery stain near the bottom. Jamia's been wearing it, he can tell by the way it's stretched out across the chest, and the way it smells a little like her lotion at the collar. There's a new toothbrush for him in the bathroom, towels that don't scratch, a dog toy in the corner.

Fuck, it's good to be home.

*

Jamia's standing at the counter when he pads into the kitchen, flipping through a magazine with a half-eaten slice of pizza in her hand. Mama and Bela are sitting at her feet, all big eyes and wagging tongues, but Jamia doesn't fall for it like Frank does.

Jamia looks up at the slap of Frank's bare feet on the tile, and he steps up behind her, nudging the dogs out of the way. He slips an arm around her and grabs her wrist with his free hand, bringing the pizza to his mouth. It's still hot, and he laughs as a string of cheese breaks off and sticks to his chin. Jamia settles back against him, stroking the back of his hand idly, where it's pressed to her belly.

"Double veggie?" he asks, around another mouthful.

"With extra onions." She turns in his arms, thumbs at the corner of his mouth. "That's love, Iero, considering I'm the one that's gotta kiss you later."

"Fuck later! C'mere." He nuzzles in with a happy hum, dropping the rest of the slice onto her magazine. She doesn't even pretend to fight him off, onion-breath and all. That _is_ love. "Is there beer?"

"You just slept for sixteen hours and you want a beer?"

"Yes! What!"

She laughs, shaking her head. "There's a six-pack in the fridge."

He plants a loud, wet kiss on her mouth and heads for the refrigerator, rooting around until his hand closes over the icy neck of a Bud Light. "You want one?"

Jamia holds up a can of Coke. "Nah, but you can grab me another one of these."

The bottle opener is in the drawer behind her, so Frank sets their drinks on the counter and crowds Jamia back into the corner of it. One hand works up underneath Jamia's shirt while he tugs the drawer open with the other, his lips trailing along her collarbone.

Jamia giggles, pushing her fingers through his hair. Her pulse speeds up under his tongue, and just like that, beer and pizza are the last things on Frank's mind. He shoves the drawer closed again.

It doesn't matter that it was a short tour or that she was with him for most of it, this is still the best part of coming home. They've perfected the art of fucking on the bus, and hotel rooms might never lose their clandestine charm, but nothing compares to this. And it's not just a pit stop between tours this time, either; it's until he and the rest of the guys start getting itchy and restless again, but he thinks it's gonna be a while before that happens. In the meantime, he's going to enjoy the hell out of playing househusband.

He bites at the curve of Jamia's neck, where it meets her shoulder. Her nipple peaks under the swipe of his thumb; his dick twitches in his sweats. "Couch?" It's closer than the bed, and way more comfortable than the kitchen floor. He'll take a little fabric-burn over cold tiles any day.

"Hell yes." Jamia slaps Frank's ass and flashes him one of those wide, toothy grins that makes his chest squeeze. She curls her fingers over his and tugs. "Let's go."

They stumble down the hallway, Frank wrapped around her from behind, nosing at her hair. She smells good, and he sighs against her shoulder, palming her belly before she pulls away to sprawl on the couch, tugging him down on top of her by the hem of his shirt. He lands with a graceless _oof_ , his hands on either side of her head.

It's stormy-dim in here, quiet except for the rain spattering the windows and his and Jamia's almost noiseless murmurs. The couch still smells new. He can probably count on one hand the number of times he's sat on it since they bought it, right after the wedding. It's cushier than he remembered, billowing up around them.

Jamia's legs draw up on either side of his hips, cradling him between them, and if there's any place he loves more than right here, he can't think of it. He settles on his elbows and plucks a strand of hair from her cheek, grins into a kiss that goes from zero to dirty with a hot slick of tongues. Jamia squirms, impatient, and he presses his hard-on to her thigh.

"This works a lot better naked, you know," he says, and she rolls her eyes, bats his hands away to yank her shirt over her head. She re-emerges tousled and flushed across the tops of her cheeks, where she's got the palest dusting of freckles. It's always been the littlest things about her that make him the craziest.

She's laughing again, tugging at the drawstring on Frank's sweats. Her fingers dig underneath the waistband, their hands and feet and clothes getting tangled and twisted as they undress.

It's not like he was a great lay when he met her, and maybe he's still not, but at least now he knows what she likes, when and where and how to touch her. Knows it in a way he's never known anything else in his whole fucking life except music, maybe. He loves the shape of her hands and her eyes, the hundred different ways she smiles, the feel of her and the way she makes him feel. He can't stop smiling, can't stop kissing her, and when he pushes in it's like every bad cliché about coming home.

Frank moans and tucks his face to the side of her neck, grabs her behind the knee to open her up a little more, get a little deeper. The plush cushions make him clumsy, but Jamia's clutching at him like she doesn't notice, or care. She meets every snap of his hips, hisses in a breath and curves up into him when he shifts his weight to thumb at her clit.

"Yeah," Jamia pants, her thighs clamping around him. She reaches between their bodies to circle his wrist, angle it better. Frank feels the quiver in her belly, the pulse of her cunt, watches her eyes squeeze shut and her lips part on a louder, deeper moan as she rises up, up, up. "Yeah, right there."

Jamia's fingers slip past his, to touch his cock where he's driving into her, and Frank's whole world becomes breath and skin and tight, wet heat. He closes his eyes and loses himself in it, loses his rhythm and comes on a stalled-out shove of his hips, his pulse hammering in his ears.

Then Jamia's touching his face, tucking a sweaty strand of hair behind his ear, and Frank sighs contentedly, kisses her as he pulls out and half-collapses on top of her. For a second everything's still, just the wind kicking up outside and the distant clicking of the dogs' nails on the kitchen floor.

He could easily go back to bed right now and sleep for another sixteen hours. The thrill of having nothing to do will wear off soon enough, he knows, but he's still got a tour's worth of sleeping badly to make up for.

On the other hand, he could really go for that beer he left in the kitchen. And a cigarette, if he can remember where he left them. Jamia'll know; she's always kept way better track of his shit than he ever could. And he hasn't showered yet, either. Shit, she _must_ really love him if she let him anywhere near her stinking like last night's show sweat. He nuzzles at the spot behind her ear, where she's a little ticklish, and she twitches under him, giggling.

"Wanna come back to bed with me?" Frank asks.

"It's not even eight o'clock. And it's Saturday."

He draws back. "So! It's my first night back."

Jamia pushes at his shoulders with the heels of her hands. "Okay, can we have this conversation when you're not crushing the air out of my lungs?"

"Say you'll come back to bed with me and I'll let you up."

"Say you'll shower and I might come back to bed with you."

"Say you'll shower _with_ me and I'll let you up." Frank usually loses when they go tit-for-tat like this, but it's worth a shot. Sometimes she gives in, usually when he least expects it.

Her eyes narrow, considering. "...Deal."

"Score!"

He collects his sweats from the opposite end of the couch and kisses her cheek as he yanks them on. Jamia feels around on the floor for her shirt. Her hair's a mess from his hands, her skin red from his stubbly cheek. He's seen her look exactly like this in hotel rooms from here to California and back again, but it's different here. It's better here, like everything else.

"I want more pizza first," Jamia says, sitting up and tugging her shirt over her head. "You want your beer?"

"Mmm, yeah." He stretches lazily, scratches at his belly.

Jamia stands up and throws him another of those big grins. "Then come get it yourself."

Frank watches her round the couch and head off towards the kitchen, wearing nothing but his old t-shirt and a couple hickeys. A beer, a smoke, and a hot shower with his hot wife. There are worse ways to welcome himself back home. He gets to his feet and follows Jamia down the hall, his hands in his pockets and his mouth tucked up on a loose, easy smile.


End file.
